


Eyes Eastward

by foreverdistracted



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Displacement, Dwarf Culture, Female Dori, Forced Marriage, Gold Sickness, M/M, Mental Illness, incest (cousin/cousin)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 18:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6294694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverdistracted/pseuds/foreverdistracted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strange illness has taken hold of the King of Erebor, and his actions are endangering his eldest grandchild. In order to protect their son, Prince Thrain and Princess Devna seek the help of a close cousin, Balin, who has successfully recovered the lost kingdom of Moria and now rules it as Lord. With his and his brother's help, Thorin is safely removed from the king's influence and has to adjust to the changes in his life—distance from his family, a new home in Moria, and an unfamiliar husband.</p><p>Despite the challenges, Thorin is unable to pry his thoughts from home. Thror worsens as the months pass, creating enemies where there were none, and with the bold strengthening of Erebor's military might, other races' thoughts are turning to war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes Eastward

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Five Hundred Pounds of Mithril](https://archiveofourown.org/works/979623) by [GreenSorceress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenSorceress/pseuds/GreenSorceress). 



> This is a variation of GreenSorceress's wonderful fic ["Five Hundred Pounds of Mithril"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/979623), which I had been enjoying a great deal. I've asked for her permission to write an alternate version, which she's kindly given. The timeline's several years before Smaug attacks Erebor per movie canon, though I messed with/made assumptions about a few characters' ages. Dori is also female here. Everyone's talking in Khuzdul unless otherwise stated. 
> 
> I took liberties in a lot of things on both movie and book canon, including Khazad-dum still containing undiscovered mithril veins, reinterpreting Sauron's order for Orcs to pester the Longbeards during the Invasion of Eriador as a curse placed specifically on Khazad-dum, the Balrog being an inert, slumbering entity at the lowest depths, Khazad-dum having a grand library alongside the Chamber of Records, timelines and ages, etc. 
> 
> As always, thank you to my wonderful proofreader for sparing the time to look over my silly crap, and to Esthree for being a wonderful, supportive voice and presence in the fandom. And to GreenSorceress for letting me play in the gorgeous AU she created.

Exhaustion and hunger from a full day of lessons could not curb the smile on Thorin's lips when his sister launched herself at him with open arms. It had only been a few days since he last saw her, with her studies keeping her at the western districts of their kingdom. Her joy over being allowed to learn of arms and travel was infectious. Frerin lagged a distance behind, wary as he approached, and received a fond (if mean-spirited) ruffling of his braids. Thorin laughed as his hand was swatted away.

They'd been about to retire to their parents' chambers, Dis speaking merrily of magic-imbued jewellery, when the door opened and out came their mother—straight-backed as usual, not a hair out of place, though tense around the eyes. From behind Princess Devna, the angry voices of their father and grandfather briefly filled the hall before the door closed.

She frowned as she spotted them, worry laying stark the aging lines around her forehead. The short peek of the intense argument from within leeched the joy from Dis's throat and made the siblings pause.

"Thorin..." their mother cautiously began in the deafening silence, her eyes sweeping over the worried faces of her children—then forced a smile and said with more ease, "Our Stonefoot friends have brought many trinkets from the east. I'm sure Dis and Frerin would like to see them before they're added to the treasury...?"

Dis was tugging at his hand in an instant. "Oh, yes, please! They make such lovely necklaces, and the treasury eats everything up!"

"I saw them yesterday," Frerin whined, though he seemed to be complaining as a matter of course. He presented no resistance when Thorin steered his arm.

"Come anyway," bid Thorin, "show us, and help me label the amber ones for our sister. I can never remember their names."

"You and amber jewellery." Despite his grousing, Frerin fell into step, his left hand lacing around their sister's and leading her down the hall.

Before they could round the corner, Thorin caught his mother's sad, grateful smile.

It wasn't until his little sister pointed out later that the gifts were coming in more often this year, that Thorin realised that yes, they _were_ , and with their rise in frequency, so too did the arguments between their father and grandfather.

He would be reminded of this just a week hence, when the five wagons of rare scarlet beryls sent by the Ironfists arrived at their gates, and their father, who was often such a calm-natured fellow, held such fury in his eyes. Thorin and Frerin were sent away from court, and any tentative inquiries Thorin made after were met with either misdirection or silence.

Everything began to change, from their tense family meals, to the even quieter evenings when Thorin had to take over tales of Dwarven history for Dis, because their mother was preoccupied in the library, and their father was often still in conference with the king.

Much like the changing of seasons, Thorin felt; slow, constant, and unstoppable.

\-----

The reason Thorin was hardly called to court these days was delivered to him one night, in the privacy of his own chambers, with his father looking older than his years.

"Your grandfather wishes you wed," his father said, after a long minute of silence. "I am trying to prevent it, but...you must prepare yourself."

 _Wed._ The word echoed, hollow, in his ears. "To whom?"

His question drew a quick, ugly bark of laughter from his father, the very sound of it unsettling. "Whoever arrives with the most wagons," his father said with a snarl. The horrid words were not out long before his father seemed to deflate, the bout of anger leaking from his face with his tired sigh. "Chance be willing, you will not have to marry at all—you've barely reached your majority, much too young still. However..."

"Grandfather is not well, is he?" Thorin ventured, when his father seemed lost and couldn't find the right words. At his father's surprised expression, he clarified, "I saw the books Mother was reading."

Thrain nodded slowly. "No...no, he is not." He took Thorin's hand in his and gave it a few pats. "It comes and goes, but it leaves less and less often. There is no love in his voice now."

At some point, Thorin guessed, his parents' efforts changed from preventing any sort of union to trying to steer it. His father was keeping many Longbeards from prominent families in close confidence, with letter after letter flying from Erebor at great speed. Matters were made clear to him one Wednesday afternoon, when he was called to court from his lessons on Westron culture, and he entered the throne room nearly blinded by the sheer amount of silver stacked at the very base of Thror's feet.

 _No_ , he soon realised with some wonder, as he took his customary place at his grandfather's right. _Not silver. Mithril._

Precious mithril, stacked so high and piled so carelessly, that some of it was spilling from the high platform into the depths below.

"Ten wagons, you say?" Thror had asked as Thorin was entering.

"Twenty, Your Highness," spoke a Dwarf outfitted in red refinements. The voice was what made Thorin realise it was Cousin Balin who spoke. He would not have guessed, dressed as he was, and with his impressive beard arranged differently in plaits.

"Twenty!" The unrestrained laughter from Thror's lips sounded vulgar to Thorin's ears. His grandfather was often the one to school him on decorum in front of esteemed guests. "Such a kingly gift Erebor has never before seen."

That was the truth of it, but this was excess of a like that drew his suspicions. His father caught his eye, and at the tiny nod he was given across the throne, Thorin knew he had helped arrange this offer in lieu of all the others.

 _At least I will not be wed to a stranger,_ Thorin thought, trying to follow the reasoning behind his parents' preference for this arrangement. And he had only ever remembered Cousin Balin to be very kind, even in his childhood.

He was to learn soon, however, that Cousin Balin was already wed and with an heir well on the way. No, the match was to his younger brother, one that Thorin had never met before. Dwalin, a large, tall Dwarf, possibly bridging the gap in age between he and Balin, dressed in ceremonial battle gear and wearing his silent displeasure about him like a winter cloak.

 _This is no happy occasion for you either, I see._ The Dwarf's eyes met his, his gaze inscrutable, before fixing itself once again upon the king.

\-----

The ceremony of joining had been a quick and fairly simple affair, due to the wishes of both Prince Thrain and Lord Balin, and King Thror saw no reason to contest this. The way his grandfather whinged at not being allowed to give a grand ceremony for his precious grandson made Thorin smile.

One of the advantages he saw to being matched with a son of Fundin was the lack of much pretence. Thrain had already consoled him with the knowledge that both Balin and Dwalin knew of the situation, and they had agreed to participate.

The marriage was permanent and binding however, as per Dwarven law and under the eyes of Mahal, the Creator. He was marrying into Dwalin's noble house and would have to leave with them for Khazad-dum at the end of the week, and there was no changing that. He hadn't quite absorbed that last part yet. He could not imagine life without his siblings, beyond the watchful eyes of his grandfather and parents.

"It must be done," Thrain had told him, when he had tried, as gently as he could, to beg off. Could Dwalin not move to Erebor instead? "You must be removed from here. Whenever your grandfather sees you, he figures you into his plans and..." He trailed off, placing a firm hand upon Thorin's shoulder instead. In a tighter voice, laced with a bid for understanding, he said, "Your mother and I will feel better if you are elsewhere, safe and looked after."

"What of Dis and Frerin?" Thorin asked. With him gone, they seemed all the more vulnerable.

"Dis is betrothed. It's a match your grandfather dares not break, not even in his state. And it will still be a few years before Frerin reaches his majority."

He wanted to say more, to find some excuse to stay, but his father drew him into a hug so tight he thought something would break. The words withered and died in his throat. This, more than anything else, felt like goodbye.

"As soon as your grandfather is well, we will send you word," Thrain whispered in his ear. "We will bring you home."

\-----

Even on the day of his marriage, underpinnings of doubt continued to hound Thorin's thoughts. If it was an illness, it was a very devious one, for his grandfather spoke, gestured, and acted as he always had. Thorin had always thought mind-sickness was something one could detect with great ease, like a missing limb, or a part of one's body that no longer worked correctly. If not for his father's words, Thorin simply saw a dwarf dear to his heart, same as before, who could be reasoned with if one merely took the time to speak to him in earnest.

But he heard as his father heard, and he observed occasions when his grandfather would enclose himself behind invisible, impassable walls and exert more force into his speech when confronted with discourse he found displeasing. Whenever he was in that frame of mind, there was no budge, no give—only anger, if pushed indelicately.

His father had said his voice no longer held love, but Thorin observed this to be untrue. There was love, so much of it, on occasions in great, painful display. But attached to it was something unfamiliar and manic that brought a chill to his spine. Sometimes, he would see his grandfather—doting, and loving; and at times, a complete stranger wearing his grandfather's robes. A stranger that was all the more frightening with the revered crown sitting on his head.

And always, that undercurrent of suspicion and rage in everything that he did, simmering so close to the surface.

Of his new husband, well, Thorin had little to say, for he saw him only briefly. Specifically when they were being wed. From that, he remembered battle-roughened hands clasping his in return, blue eyes a shade darker than his own, and his simple response: "Aye. I do."

Then he vanished amidst the Khazad-dum contingent, cradling close to his chest a large tankard of Erebor's finest brew.

\-----

"But why must you go?" Dis cried, clinging to his (formerly immaculate) royal tunic. Both she and Frerin were being shielded from much of the truth by their parents, and Thorin would not have it any other way. But the events took a toll on his siblings. Frerin had resorted to anger, shutting himself up in his room until Thorin begged at the doorstep to speak with him one night, and they laid bare their troubles. He was more observant than their parents gave him credit for, Thorin discovered, as he'd noticed little things different with Thror from weeks back, and spoke words Thorin made him promise never to repeat out in the open. Troubled as he was by how much anger Frerin carried, he did not want to leave Erebor worrying whether his younger brother would be accused of treason.

Dis had been the epitome of composure, standing next to their mother and holding tightly to her hand, until the very day he was to depart. She was a dam broken loose, ignoring the reaching hands and alarmed shouts, rushing forth to cling to Thorin's waist as he was about to mount his pony. Her head barely came up to Thorin's chin, he noted sadly, and hoped she did not grow very tall until he was around to witness it. She gave Thorin such plaintive words that he struggled to listen to without crumbling himself, for they echoed every inch of his own confused heart.

"Why is grandfather letting this happen?! It has only been a week since I returned, and now you are married and leaving us forever!"

"Dear sister," Thorin had to stop, for her tears were threatening to draw forth his own. He forced a smile and tenderly brought their foreheads together. "Hush now, and don't undo our parents' hard work."

"Please don't go," she begged, before their father's arms took her away.

Cousin Balin was quick to dissolve the furious look on Thror's face, laughing and waving the display off as the overdramatic passions of the young. Thorin let their voices fade into the background, burning into his mind the sight of his family, who looked more like they were attending a funeral rather than celebrating their son's new life.

When he could no longer bear their sight, he gave a deep nod towards his parents and mounted his pony, urging her into a trot towards the space left for him beside his silent husband.

He wasn't sure when the smoothing over had finished between Balin and the king. When the Khazad-dum assembly began to move, so did he.

\-----

_"A mirror? Did I hear ye right?"_

_"Aye. And perhaps a study over here, by the window..." Balin released a quick sigh. He spun in place and threw his hands up in the air. "This will just not do. I thought you said this place was ready!"_

_"And 'tis. Bed," Dwalin pointed at the four-poster in the middle of the room, "chair, table," he concluded, pointing at the rest of the mentioned furniture. "How more ready can it get?"_

_"You are bringing home a_ husband _, you dullard, not a prisoner!"_

_"Wouldn't have bothered with the table if he was a prisoner," Dwalin muttered. At Balin's resigned look, he said with a snarl, "I don't see why we have to fancy up the place just for bloody Thorin of Erebor. 'S not like we're sleeping on goose feathers ourselves."_

_"Brother..." Balin placed his thumb and forefinger between his eyes, as he often did when massaging away a rising headache. "The lad has enough things to worry about without having to find living here a chore as well. Can we not manage that, at least?"_

_Dwalin snorted. "'Worry', ye say? I've seen Frerin. I can't think of a Dwarf more spoilt."_

_"Thorin is nothing like Frerin. I know this is very hard for you, but stop and think a moment, Brother, and remember that a son of Thrain, son of Thror, descendant of the Line of Durin, is marrying into_ our _house—"_

_"'S all a sham, though, isn't it? Favour for his pa. Aye, he'll bear our name and fly our house's banner, but soon as this whole mess with his grandfather solves itself, he'll be back in Erebor like nothing happened."_

_"No." Balin's expression was a humbling combination of worry and pity. "No, were you not even listening when...? Apparently not. Well, this is no temporary arrangement. For good or ill, Thorin will be part of our house, now."_

_"Oh..." That did change things, Dwalin supposed. He shrugged and said, "Guess we can put in a mirror."_

More fool, he. One look at Thrain's son entering the throne room from an eastern door, and he was hard-pressed to remember why he was so resistant to Balin's pleas for grander accommodations.

Thorin, prince of Erebor, it turned out, was rather beautiful, in all the ways Dwalin had not been expecting. There'd been gossip and second-hand accounts (though never from Balin himself, and Dwalin felt a little betrayed by this huge omission), but he'd never been one to take such talk seriously. Riches and beautiful things were best kept at arm's length, he'd learnt. It helped that the Fundins were a naturally suspicious lot...and yet here they were, trading their kingdom's treasure in exchange for the most handsome dwarf he had ever seen.

It had all seemed so simple, hearing his brother tell it: Thror, for whatever insane notion, had begun pitting dwarf clan against clan in an effort to secure the highest possible bid for his eldest grandchild. Thrain had written asking for help. They owed the family, so they agreed to a course of action and safely squirreled Thorin away from his grandfather's influence, while his parents sought to make Thror see reason.

He should have at least suspected things would never be that easy. During the three months leading up to the visit to Erebor, his brother and he had argued more than they had in the entire year. And over—in Dwalin's mind—such inconsequential things.

Now, with Erebor a faint shape in the distance, watching Thorin tying his braids through the partially opened tent flap, he had to secretly commend his brother for his foresight. At least about the mirror.

"Breakfast in Balin's tent, when ye're ready."

Thorin looked up, startled. Incredible blue eyes stared at him a moment before he carefully schooled his expression. "Thank you. I will be there shortly."

Nothing seemed able to dull his loveliness any, not even waking up on rough, damp terrain, half-combed and ill-slept. Dwalin gave him a brisk nod and left him alone.

He always made sure to eat his breakfast early so he would not have to join the other two. He did not have the stomach to endure his brother's hours-long stories designed solely to put the prince of Erebor at better ease. The first day on the road was quite enough, with him having to sit quietly for two hours while Balin embellished a tale and attempted to draw a smile out of their guest.

And there were plenty of stories to tell, if one were to start from three years ago, as Balin had, when King Thror blessed their expedition to retake Khazad-dum with dwarves, arms, and provisions; up to last year's final push that granted them triumphant control of the lost kingdom. Dwalin had been close to the entrance of his brother's tent when Balin spun the story of the unending sea of weaker Orcs that continued to pour through the tunnels, of the clever traps and tunnel routing they'd employed so that the tide could be stemmed and made manageable for their soldiers.

Thorin's smiles could be weapons, Dwalin thought, after catching sight of one once—deadly, if the prince would ever think to use them as such. He felt like he could do a great many things, and not all of them just, to receive one of those.

Throughout the long days, during the quiet hours of the morning, Thorin's eyes fell on him a few times. The silent scrutiny was like pinpricks on his skin. Dwalin bore it the first few days, but he'd not the patience for it after a week and made sure to always sup at the crack of dawn since.

No doubt his brother would start poking about his reticence to join their morning meals (dinners were quite fine, those only lasted for thirty minutes at most, with everyone tired and eager to rest), but for now, he valued the time he had to himself. Thorin and he didn't quite know what to make of each other, he felt. But nothing about this situation was of his making, and he was not about to feel guilty whenever Balin's stories failed to draw cheer from the dispossessed prince.

\-----

Thorin counted the minutes before the scraping of the chair across from him filled the dining room. Having finished his breakfast, Dwalin muttered an excuse and swiftly departed towards the south exit.

"I see my once fearless brother flees again today," Balin remarked, his expression both frustrated and amused. "Most likely at the barracks until dinner."

"Don't take it to heart, lad," Dori said from Thorin's right, her plate still partially filled with choice cuts of meats and fruit. It had been heaped close to spilling at the start of the meal, and every time she would get close to reaching halfway to finishing it, Balin would be up and leaning over the table, knife and fork in hand, eagerly dumping more slices onto her plate.

Thorin had vague recollections of his mother going through the same when she had been pregnant with Dis, and Frerin was but a swaddled bundle of cloth always in the arms of his grandfather. There was much laughter then. Seeing this every morning always managed to lift some of the sadness.

"There really is still a _lot_ to do around here," Dori continued, while pouring both herself and Thorin more tea before he could beg off. "He's a kind man, truly."

"I have experienced nothing but kindness since leaving Erebor," he politely said, and smiled when both husband and wife shared a look of exasperation. "I am sure we can be friends, in time."

"You can speak plainly with us, lad, especially around the table," Balin said, with a mild, admonishing tone. "We don't stand on ceremony here, as I'm sure you've noticed."

"I have. I apologise." From what Thorin observed, the only thing the Fundins seemed to take seriously enough for strict rituals was their military. Not a single dwarf would bat an eye if one showed up to dinner trailing mud on the floor, but Durin forbid one answered a drill with unpolished knuckle dusters.

He said as much to Balin, who found his observation quite funny. "Maybe when we've restored the throne room to its former glory, we can start putting on airs again. What say you, dear?"

"I say that's the day I move out of the royal chambers," Dori exclaimed, and laughed when Balin mock-pouted at her. "I rather like what we have right now, though I wouldn't say no to better drapes."

"Better drapes, better furniture, better...better everything, really..." His cousin heaved a sigh as he surveyed the expanse of the dining hall.

Five days earlier had been Thorin's first time walking into the hall upon invitation to join the Fundins for every meal, and he could still remember his sense of wonder. Khazad-dum's royal dining hall was twice the size of Erebor's, perhaps as large as its newly-constructed Hall of Kings. It could perhaps double as a music hall, for the layout was round, bordered on the east and west with half-circle walls that had two floors with steep stairs and two exits each. Surrounding the centre were six support pillars, decorated with tapestries (once grand, Thorin guessed, now ripped beyond any hope of repair) and multiple stains whose origins he would rather not guess at.

In the very middle of it, below a massive cobwebbed chandelier no one had been able to reach yet, they'd placed a small table fit for six, with simple chairs and a homemade knit table cloth. It was a while before Thorin stopped finding the contrast rather funny.

That about summed up how the Fundins lived in Khazad-dum, if one were to take the dining hall and apply it elsewhere. Thorin's bedroom was extremely large, floored with lovely (if chipped) white marble and each wal lined with layers of onyx threaded with gold seams. Balin currently had researchers studying how the effect was achieved, for the aesthetic was extremely pleasing, but apart from the grandeur of the walls, it contained spartan, wooden furniture. There was an undercurrent of economical, military living in Khazad-dum, and little wonder as to why—with the kingdom barely reclaimed for a year, Orcs continued to plague the southwest tunnels, and restoration efforts were still focused on making the people's quarters liveable.

The entire section leading to the mining depths seventy floors down was completely sealed off. While stories of Durin's Bane belonged in every dwarf's childhood collection of myths, it was heavy in the minds of Balin's people when they claimed the lower floors. As soon as they’d come upon halls threaded with forming mithril veins but untouched by Orcs, he’d ordered his men to retreat five floors up and seal every access below.

"Oh, you'll be pleased to hear this," Balin said to Thorin, while placing a fourth helping of fatty roasted bear meat upon Dori's plate (who gestured for him to keep going with the food when Balin paused), "I heard back from King Nain's people - the books you wanted will arrive in five weeks, and we've located where Khazad-dum's grand library used to be. It's a safe enough area, but we'll need to dig through and ventilate it first. Might take a few days."

"Good news indeed," Thorin replied, "thank you, cousin." Much of the history of Durin's folk was broken and scattered, but with the grand library of Khazad-dum available to him, perhaps he could find some clue regarding his grandfather's ailment, or something close to it. The Line of Durin was known for its repetitive patrilineal traits, and it would have been written down if someone farther up his history possessed similar symptoms.

"I'll send Ori to help, of course," Dori remarked in a tone that brooked no argument, after swallowing her mouthful. "Will be nice for both of you to have company while looking over dusty tomes, and goodness knows how that boy can go through books."

"All of our scholars are at your disposal," Balin said after, with a consoling pat on his hand. "If there's something here that can help, we'll find it, laddie."

\-----

"Twelve today, eh?" Mir said, while wearing an amused smirk. "You sure you don't have something against mountain hares, Sir?"

"Just put them with all the rest. Still short?"

Mir stroked her beard while consulting a piece of paper from behind her butcher's stall. "Just a pound or two, I think. I reckon six more rabbits and you should be done for the trim and undercoat."

"Tomorrow," Dwalin said, and nodded his thanks.

He'd turned to leave when she called out, "I _could_ just mix in some dyed reindeer fur, if you're in a hurry. We have plenty of those...not as soft as white rabbit fur, but—"

He frowned and looked over his shoulder. "No."

The butcher shrugged. "All right, then."

It was no easy task, he discovered, having custom wear commissioned, and developed a newfound respect for Balin and Dori's attention to clothing. It was to be a practical gift, at first—Thorin had taken to walking the high balconies facing the east, though the home he so longed for wasn't visible in the distance. Those balconies (in fact, all of the high peaks and their windows facing north and north-east) suffered the ever-changing wrath of Barazinbar, from wild gales to rains to snow, with temperatures that could freeze hardy Men and annoy Dwarf skin.

Thorin had been surprised with the differences in weather from gate to gate, which was discussed over one of their family meals. While winter was rough and getting harsher in the east, the west of Khazad-dum remained autumnal still, and it would take perhaps another month before the ice began to fall there. He hadn't thought the wrath of Barazinbar to be quite so literal, and was admittedly ill-dressed for the cold.

 _So,_ Dwalin figured, _a coat._

Except the furs they had on hand were from yak, reindeer, wolves, and wargs. Hard, harsh stuff, and of unsatisfying lengths. His own fur vestments were made from a mixture of ram and bear, and odours tended to adhere unpleasantly to it. One stroll through the butcher shop, and Balin would be complaining if he sat down to dinner without shedding layers.

So, better furs. Signing up for an entire week's hunt solved that - he was assured mountain hares made for coveted coats and good eating.

He’d thought that might be the end of it, except the design he'd chosen from a collection of drawings apparently required further attention. The tailor had asked him about the filigree pattern and the shape of the accents, the height of the collar, the cut of the tail end, and on and on. Dwalin was quite lost. He was sure he wanted Durin's emblem featured, but hadn't given it much thought beyond that. After he fell silent for several awkward minutes, the dwarf took pity on him.

_"It's for the lovely new prince, yes? I'll take care of the designs. All I need from you now is the colour and make, and I'll have something drafted for your approval."_

That was more of a comfort than Dwalin could express. _"Black,"_ he'd said, as the tailor took notes, _"as the deepest of the Deeps."_ With detailed mithril filigree and blue sapphires for accents bordering the hem, beside the white fur lining.

Except Dwalin wasn't quite happy with the blue sapphires the tailor had on hand. They were pretty things, round and precisely cut, but the shine, he thought, was dull, and their colour didn't quite match Thorin's eyes as much as he'd like.

So, better gems.

He'd nearly cancelled the custom order when Dori had mentioned that she'd noticed Thorin's lack of suitable winter wear and asked for a set to be made. His sister-in-law could be a big fusspot over many things, and clothing was one of them—if she'd ordered for a set, as she'd said, then that was all Thorin was probably going to need. But during the following day's breakfast, she related how the tailor she'd commissioned was suddenly being inventive with his choices and asked for a few weeks' extension. (He couldn't make out how she was able to learn this between breakfast and dinner the previous night, as he'd remembered no messengers during those hours.)

Thorin had asked her not to trouble herself. He still did not cease patrolling the balconies before dinner, however.

Now, after checking in with the tailor and approving the design, all he needed was a second choice of gems and enough soft fur for the high collar. Rabbit hair was too short and wouldn't do, even with the magic their furriers could do with it. He needed to go farther out, or settle for the rougher kind closer to home.

 _Concerns for another day._ He pushed it out of his thoughts for now and proceeded to the shattered eastern gates, disliking the slow progress they were making with its repairs. The smiths and architects were hard at work. Beyond them, the waters of Kheled-zaram remained blue and calm amidst the snow-peppered landscape. The winter was not so heavy as to drown out the grass yet.

From there, he could look towards the high slopes of the mountains and make out Thorin's figure in the distance, high above—a grey blur through white fog.

"Grew up into a fine young dwarf, our Prince Thorin."

Dwalin glanced to his side and found him being observed by Hrud, one of their Chief Architects. "Erebor?" he asked.

"Born and raised," Hrud confirmed, which was no surprise to Dwalin. About a third of the dwarves in Khazad-dum had been part of the original force that left with him and Balin three years ago. Hrud stroked his greying beard while he recalled, "Though last I saw him was about...eight or nine years ago, I reckon. A head shorter than he is now. I saw his siblings more often around the guild halls, running about and causing mischief."

"But not him?" Dwalin asked, curious.

"No, not him. Very serious, our prince. A quiet and kind lad, when not in some lesson or other."

It was not difficult to picture, Dwalin found, remembering the first time he'd set foot in Erebor's throne room. Thorin had entered, and after the initial shock at all the mithril they'd carelessly piled at Thror's feet, had stood to his grandfather's right for the remainder of their audience, silent and observant.

"Is it odd?" he found himself asking, causing Hrud to glance up from the blueprint he'd returned to. "Him being here. The marriage."

"In a way," Hrud cautiously said. "King Thror rarely let him out of his sight. That he'd allow his grandson to marry so early and move so far away, well..."

Dwalin gave a soft grunt, recognising the unspoken request for clarification and ignoring it. He and Balin had agreed—though he had contested this vehemently—that they would let others think as they would and keep the details of the joining strictly within the family.

He was unsure as to the wisdom behind this. The truth would come out eventually, he was convinced. King Thror was not getting any better.

"Then again," Hrud continued, sounding cheerful, "perhaps he saw wisdom in the match as we do now. You two make a handsome pair, after all."

Dwalin's suspicious glare was met with a lopsided smile and a shrug.

"Aye, you do. I've not seen a fairer match since Prince Thrain and Princess Devna were wed. It's all very romantic and such, even if Prince Thorin's suffering from a bad case of homesickness."

He huffed, a little embarrassed. After a curt nod, he let the architect return to his work, moving on to the stone masons to check on their progress and help where he could.

" _Homesickness_ ," he thought derisively, and let his gaze stray towards the mountain peaks. It would seem that way to others, he supposed. All he saw was a dwarf worrying himself to an early grave, while Balin no doubt still saw a dwarfling in need of protection.

Far above, the howling winds threw snow against the scenic balconies, all shut save for one.

\-----

Thorin sighed and slumped in his chair, at a loss as to how to respond to the letter in his hand. He'd put Dis's letter last amongst the pile of unanswered missives, taking his time with Frerin's, and piling on the assurances for his mother and father.

From his grandfather, no letter came. He hadn't quite been prepared for the amount of hurt this caused, for all that he knew Thror was not well. But knowing this did nothing to ease the uncertainties that plagued his mind, and the way he so very badly missed Thror's solid, reliable presence. His grandfather had been the unshakeable wall Thorin had not realised he'd been leaning on until it was crumbling.

He did not let his thoughts stray there too much. _"I need my grandfather,"_ he had wanted to write. _"Might I return home?"_ It was childish and _weak_ , and something in him cringed at the mere thought. But he longed to have it in writing somewhere. His grandfather did not read his letters anyway.

Instead, he'd written about the strange beauty of Khazad-dum, how Kheled-zaram resembled cut agate during sunsets, and how wise he had been to place so much trust in Cousin Balin.

He should not hope for a reply, he knew, but he had told himself thus for the past number of letters, and still he sought his grandfather's name.

Dis's last two messages were the hardest to get through, with her most recent causing him to hover his quill over blank parchment and slump back in his chair in turns, well into the night, with a number of drafts discarded at his feet. It was clear from her letter that their parents had not seen fit to trouble her with the truth (and truly, Thorin was quite grateful for it). But now, her letters were filled with questions about married life. Little wonder, as she's been betrothed since before she could walk, and Thorin knew such matters troubled her from conversations past, though she never gave voice to them in front of their parents.

 _"Is it so very strange, sharing one bed?"_ she asked in her letter, her handwriting more slanted and cramped than usual - a familiar sign she'd written the questions in a rush, _"Does he introduce you as his husband, or simply by name? Do you have separate closets for your clothes, or do you share one storage as mother and father do? How did that discussion even come about?"_

Thorin groaned. What was he to say? Keeping silent on the truth was one thing, but he was not sure if he had the stomach to outright lie to his youngest sibling.

A soft exhale left his lips while he looked over the slew of questions one more time... _"Is he kind?"_ was easier to answer, even if Thorin was not sure. Dwalin had been keeping his distance and had thus far never spoken a single cross word in his presence. That counted, he decided. From there, a few others went on in a similar vein, questions he could focus on while sidestepping the others - "Does he treat you well?" "Are you kept safe?" "Are you happy?"

Hm. Best avoid that last one.

He steeled his resolve and began his response, weaving about the truth and trying not to picture the disappointment in Dis's face too much.

\-----


End file.
